We’re our stuff, and our stuff is us, and our stuff is garbage, not in a metaphorical sense with regards to the quality of its execution or its greenwashing, but in the literal sense, in that most of our stuff is trash, or will end up there, not while we’re here, of course – in that case our stuff is valuable, all of it, the … Continue reading Stuff
I loved the heat register in my home. Pretty vents decorating the floor, making things warm and cozy; I’m a fan of both. I sat on top of them when I was a child, nightgown spread wide to capture the warm air, a tiny parachute of heat, my quilt on my lap to make sure that no warm air was lost to my bedroom’s surrounds. … Continue reading The register.
My life feels odd. I’m adrift mentally and emotionally. I’m still bleeding from a multiplicity of wounds received in rapid succession. Things have calmed enough now to feel and attend to them. My brain is also starting to calm. My thinking brain is turning back on. Things don’t go well for me when reactivity is driving the bus. I don’t have much in the way … Continue reading puttering.
I can’t write. It’s not working for me right now. I think it’s because I’ve got things locked up tight. There’s too much going on, too much that has to get done, and too many petty grievances. If I let things go, only a crater will remain. Perhaps I can send out invitations to those who annoy? I do find water painting to be a … Continue reading spring morning.
From Famine to Feast. 